Lonely Hart
by xavionite
Summary: ON HIATUS. 1997. While on vacation with Jennifer in Italy, an injured Jonathan is given the terrible news of her death. Can it really be true?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first Hart to Hart fanfic. I've been immersed in the show over the past few months and suddenly this story just started bursting inside me. It's set in 1997, about a year after the last Hart to Hart movie. The setting of Positano, Italy is a real place, and several of the incidents I depict in this chapter really happened—the encounter with the shopkeeper is based on an exchange between a shopkeeper and my dad on the first visit my family made there; the wedding ring incident happened to my husband and me on our honeymoon (though I've embellished the results). Casa Guadagno is a real bed and breakfast, where my husband and I spent the best part of our honeymoon; however, we did not actually get to know the proprietors and any reference to them is fictional.**

 **Glossary (Italian – English)**

 **Arrivederci - Until we meet again; goodbye**

 **La dottoressa – The doctor (female)**

 **Pensione - a bed and breakfast style inn**

 **Ristorante - restaurant**

 **Un bell vino – A fine wine**

 **Una bella signora – A beautiful wife**

* * *

 _July 17, 1997_

 _The nightmare is always the same. I am lost in a thick fog, wandering, cold, without hope, calling your name. The wind swirls around me, ripping the cry from my lips and tossing it into the abyss. And then I am falling… only to awaken alone in the dark, to the knowledge that every awakening now will be alone. "J-J-Jennifer, Darling," I stammer (a frustrating effect of my injury), but no soft hand reaches to soothe me. No calm voice cuts through the darkness, calling me home. I feel a cool wet cloth on my brow. Cold, dispassionate fingers guide a straw to my lips and a monotone voice urges me to drink, but it is not you._

 _I have been lost in the darkness before, but you were there to guide me through, your love a clear beacon of light that even blindness could not extinguish. You brought me through that trial, and the first sight I saw when my eyes healed was the love in your eyes. Now they tell me you are gone. I refuse to believe them, but **la dottoressa** says I must come to terms with my loss if I wish to get well enough for the journey home. She cannot understand—you are my home. You are my life, my light, my love. Without you, all else is meaningless. All the material wealth I have accumulated over the years is only so much chaff compared to you. If I cannot open my eyes to find you gazing back at me, what point is there in healing?_

 _And so I sit in my chair by the open window, breathing in the thick fragrance of jasmine and thinking of you, of those last happy days we had together, letting the pleasant memories crowd out my present miseries..._

* * *

April 3, 1997

Jonathan Hart heaved a deep sigh of relief as round three of the latest negotiations finally concluded. For the last few weeks he had been immersed in Hart Industries' acquisition of Denning Pharmaceutical, a deal that had brought him to New York City for a series of intense meetings with Denning's lawyer, Harvey Stevenson. It had all started as a simple transaction, set in motion by Jonathan's friend Miles Denning, who knew his remaining time on this Earth was short and wanted to guarantee his ailing wife would be well cared for in his absence. But cancer had wreaked its havoc faster than expected and Miles had died suddenly, just as the original deal was nearing completion, throwing the whole plan into disarray. Miles' son Christopher had swooped in to contest the acquisition and claim Denning Pharmaceutical for himself, in spite of his father's wishes, turning the whole procedure into a complicated legal battle. Had Miles not clearly expressed that he wanted his son kept far away from the company he'd built over the last thirty years, Jonathan might have washed his hands of the whole affair and walked away. But Miles' widow Teresa was a fragile woman, battling Alzheimer's Disease and terrified of her own son, and Jonathan knew he could not leave her at the younger Denning's mercy. Now the matter was decided, the final papers signed and approved by the court, and Denning Pharmaceutical had become a subsidiary of Hart Industries. Jonathan had no interest in making money from this deal. According to the agreement, all profit beyond that needed to assure Teresa's comfort for the rest of her days would be split between funding Alzheimer's research and providing medical care for needy children at the hospital where Miles' daughter had spent the last months of her life battling leukemia. Sulk as he might, Christopher could not touch a penny of it, and Jonathan could leave New York with a deep sense of satisfaction that he had accomplished something good.

Now at last it was time to go home. Jonathan smiled. It was only 10:00 a.m. He could be in the air within a couple of hours and wrapping his arms around the woman he loved well before supper time. Jennifer usually traveled with him, but this time she had remained in Los Angeles with Freeway Junior. Research and a looming deadline kept her from joining her husband in New York. She had called him last night to tell him her article was finished and submitted to her editor. At his insistence, she promised she would relax for a few days before accepting another assignment.

He had congratulated her and told her he loved and missed her, but had not mentioned that his own work was nearly done and his private jet stood ready at Teterboro Airport to carry him home. He wanted to surprise her and then he wanted to whisk her away. He had already made the arrangements and communicated his plans to their housekeeper Rosy, who had taken Max's place after his death. No doubt Rosy already had their bags packed and ready to go (out of Mrs. H's sight, of course).

Jonathan slid his copy of the paperwork into his briefcase, clapped Harvey on the back and bid him adieu. 20 minutes later, his driver merged onto I-95, heading north to Teterboro.

* * *

After a lazy morning and a late lunch with Rosy, Jennifer wandered down to the beach for a walk along the strand. Though she still missed the house where she and Jonathan had built so many happy memories, she had come to love the beach house as well. She loved the water at all times of day… in the cool of the morning when she had only the seagulls for company; in the afternoon heat with cold water lapping her feet; and at sunset, when the Pacific reflected a carnelian sky. _Only Jonathan's presence could improve on this,_ she mused.

About half a mile from the house, she came across a boy and a girl laughing and chattering as they built a sand castle while their mother lounged a short distance away, engrossed in a book. Jennifer watched, intrigued. The children were beautiful, their skin a deep tan and their hair a tumble of slick jet black ringlets. Jennifer had long ago given up on the idea of having children, though she and Jonathan both would have loved to be parents. Once upon a time she had wrestled with guilt over the emptiness of her womb. She remembered her husband's eyes when a young boy had come to them, convinced Jonathan was his father. Of course, he hadn't been—his real father was simply running a scam—but Jonathan was ready to be exactly what that boy needed, and Jennifer could sense the longing in him for a son or daughter of his own blood, a child she had never conceived. Over time, Jonathan had put her guilt to rest. "A lifetime of loving you is worth more than a dozen sons or daughters to me," he had assured her. "Would I like to be a father? Yes, I would. But I don't _need_ to be a father. I only need you." And then he had pulled her into his arms and convinced her how very much he meant it.

The little boy called excitedly for his mother to come see the castle. Mom lowered her book slightly and raised her head for a second to peer through dark sunglasses at the structure. She waved a hand dismissively and returned to her reading. Jennifer felt a surge of indignation wash over her. _If these were my children,_ she thought, _I would be splashing in the surf with them, or putting the finishing touches on the castle turret before the tide makes it crumble._ Part of her wanted to sit down next to the little girl and help strengthen the castle wall, but she knew better than to encourage the little ones to admit a stranger into their play. Instead she moved closer to the lounging woman. "That's some castle they're building," she observed. "I remember going to the beach with my mother when I was a little girl. We would spend hours building castles and watching the surf carry them away and then building them up again. She died when I was still young—I would give anything to have those hours with her back. Some days I struggle to remember what she looked like, but I always remember the time she made for me."

The younger woman frowned as she lowered her book and rested it on her stomach, but she took the time to give the castle and her children a close look before responding and her expression softened. "They are pretty special, aren't they?" she asked. "They just run me ragged, you know?"

The little girl squealed as a wave came in and broke down the castle's outer wall, and Jennifer smiled wistfully. "I wish I did know," she said softly. "My husband and I were never so blessed. I… apologize if I was sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong. But I know how easy it is to become so used to our blessings we stop noticing them. We don't any of us know how many days we've got… we just have to make the most of each one that comes."

"You're right." The young woman slipped her book into her bag. "I'm Maya Remington. These are my twins, Isaac and Jamie. Their dad's stationed on a ship in the Persian Gulf. They have the day off school and all they wanted to do was come to the beach, even though it's not really hot enough."

"Jennifer Hart." Jennifer extended a hand to shake Maya's. "And at least it's not crowded today."

Maya laughed. "That's true! Well… what do you say? Would you like to build a castle with us?" She nodded toward the kids, who were frowning at the sight of their castle in ruins.

"It's my specialty!" Jennifer said, happy that the woman hadn't taken her for an interfering busybody. Together, they jogged over to the children and for the next hour or so, Jennifer had the joy of feeling sand squish between her bare toes and grimy little fingers wrapping around hers and, best of all, hearing Maya join in her children's laughter.

When the castle was finished and Jamie had handed her a flag to place on the highest turret, Jennifer suddenly heard a familiar voice behind her. "You've never looked more lovely to me than you do right now, Darling."

Forgetting the flag, she pivoted in place to see Jonathan standing there, a jaunty grin on his face and a wicked gleam in his eye. "Jonathan!" she exclaimed. "You didn't tell me you were coming home today!"

"No, I didn't. You're particularly beautiful when you're surprised, after all. I didn't want to spoil this moment by letting you know." He stepped toward her and took the flag from her hands, landing a kiss on her lips at the same time. In the background, the children giggled at the show of intimacy. "May I?" he asked them. They nodded and giggled again, and Jonathan planted the flag in the turret.

"Jonathan," Jennifer said, "I'd like you to meet Maya, Jamie, and Isaac Remington."

"My pleasure." He gave a polite nod of greeting. "And now, if you will permit me, I am going to spirit my wife away. It's been far too long since we've had an evening together."

Maya managed a faint smile, and Jennifer imagined she must be thinking of how long her own husband had been gone. She squeezed her new friend's shoulder. "Before you know it, he'll be home," she assured her. Jamie and Isaac both offered her sandy hugs, and then she linked arms with Jonathan and started the walk back home.

"I don't know about you, Jennifer, but I have a sudden hankering for Italian food." Jonathan quirked an eyebrow, and Jennifer knew he had something up his sleeve.

"Italian sounds good," she agreed. "How about Alfonse's?"

He laughed as they climbed the steps up to the beach house. "I had a feeling you would say that and I've already made arrangements. Why don't you shower and change? It will be an early dinner, but I'm starving."

Thirty minutes later, they were on the road. Only a few minutes into the drive, when Jonathan turned right when she expected a left, Jennifer's suspicions were raised. "Jonathan, this isn't the way to Alfonse's."

"Trust me, Darling," was all he would say. "Just lean back and rest your eyes." Despite the urge to peek, she did as he said, curiosity welling inside of her all the while. She tried to keep track of left and right turns, but eventually it was all a jumble in her mind. At last, he stopped the car and she heard him shift into park. "All right," he said. "You can look."

Jennifer sat up straight and opened her eyes to find the Benz parked outside Los Angeles Airport's charter flight terminal. Jonathan popped the trunk, then hopped out. He came around the car to open his wife's door, then grabbed two suitcases from the trunk, slammed it shut, and nodded toward the terminal with a grin. "Come on. Jack has probably finished refueling and is eager to get back in the air."

"The air… Jonathan… but… I thought…" She shook her head in bewilderment and followed him into the airport. Jonathan just kept grinning. "You look just like the cat that ate the canary," she teased.

Inside the plane, Jennifer found the table set for two, with Alfonse's best veal parmigiana and a bottle of chianti waiting for them. She laughed and threw her arms around her husband.

"I always keep my promises," he quipped, then kissed her on the lips and guided her to a seat. "Buckle up, Darling, and we'll get underway."

In spite of Jennifer's pleas, Jonathan steadfastly refused to tell her where they were bound on this trip. "I've said it before, Darling—'Knights in shining armor never tell!'" Eventually she stopped asking and determined simply to enjoy every moment with her husband to the fullest.

* * *

After a stopover to refuel in London, the plane landed in Naples about 3:00 the following afternoon. From there, the Harts caught a ferry to Sorrento and another to Positano. Jennifer was thankful Jonathan had arranged to travel by ferry. She would never forget her first visit to the Amalfi Coast with her father when she was just a teen. They had rented a vehicle in Rome and driven south to Positano. While the drive was breathtakingly beautiful, it was also terrifying: a narrow corkscrew of a road, with a steep cliff rising upwards on one side, a straight drop down to the ocean on the other side, and insane drivers zipping around the curves with little concern for what might be coming the other direction. In spots—often at hairpin curves—the road was barely wide enough to allow traffic in one direction, and a driver might have to back up to a wider bit just to allow another vehicle to get by. Stephen Edwards had sworn never to drive that road again after the first experience. When Jennifer brought Jonathan here not long after they married, they had traveled the Amalfi Coast road with a hired driver. They had reached their destination pale and weak-kneed, their hands white-knuckled from grasping the door handle for dear life. The ferry was a much better option.

Jennifer sighed with sheer delight as they drew closer to Positano. The town was like something out of a storybook, built up the side of a cliff. "Please tell me we're staying at Casa Guadagno," she said softly. There were more elegant hotels in the town, but the small **pensione** was special and the proprietors had become dear friends over the years.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Jonathan murmured, and he kissed her forehead. "Our room overlooks the water and tonight we will dine simply, just like we did our first time here. 'A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou beside me singing in the wilderness—oh, wilderness were Paradise enow!'"* he quoted.

"Don't forget the 'book of verses underneath the bough.'" Jennifer laughed and turned toward her husband so that the kiss he was aiming to plant behind her ear landed on her nose instead. She tilted her head upward and kissed him full on the lips. "Have I told you lately that I love you?" she asked.

"Not for an hour or two, so I'm ready to hear it again." They stood together at the rail, holding one another close and watching as the ferry was tied off at the dock. At last, it was time to disembark.

The Guadagnos had sent a driver to meet them, but Jennifer fancied a good walk, so they sent their luggage ahead in the vehicle, then started off on foot along the rocky beach. They took the footpath from the Saracen Cove Hotel to Fornillo Beach, then climbed up the ancient, crumbling stairway to their bed and breakfast. Every sight, smell, and sound triggered a slew of happy memories for the couple.

Just across the street from Casa Guadagno was a small shop, and they ducked inside to purchase bread, wine, and cheese for their supper. The shopkeepers in town tended to produce and sell their own wines, and this particular vintage was a favorite of both Harts. Jonathan passed the shopkeeper a 10,000 lire note and waved away the offer of change. **"Un bell vino,"** he told the elderly man in his stilted Italian.

The shopkeeper smiled and gestured broadly towards Jennifer. **"Una bella signora!"** Jennifer blushed at the compliment, while her husband simply beamed his agreement. The shopkeeper slapped Jonathan on the back and bid them **arrivederci.** Then Jonathan and Jennifer went to check in to their room.

* * *

"Remember the first time we came here?" Jennifer murmured drowsily as she and Jonathan lounged on Fornillo Beach the second day of their vacation. "Your wedding ring?"

"How could I forget?" Jonathan quipped. "We were sitting in the **ristorante** over by the Saracen Cove Hotel and suddenly you gasped in horror. I thought maybe you'd swallowed a fly." He chuckled as he rubbed at the gold band on his left ring finger.

"Of course I gasped! There we were, barely six months married, and I had just noticed your wedding ring was missing!" Even now, more than a decade later, the memory aroused Jennifer's indignation.

Jonathan laughed. "I never expected it to slip off my finger in the cold water! I'm surprised you let me finish my pasta and pay the bill before hurrying me back to the beach to search."

"You should be thankful you married a very patient and forgiving wife." Jennifer arched an eyebrow at him. "You know, some women might have considered it a bad omen for the marriage and run away then and there."

"I am thankful," Jonathan said, leaning over the side of his lounger to kiss her. "Thankful you married me, and thankful you aren't superstitious. And looking back now, I think we both agree it was a good thing—look at the friendship we made," Jonathan turned onto his stomach to let the sun warm his bare back.

"Well, now I do, yes," Jennifer conceded. "Thank goodness for that tourist who noticed us and asked what we were looking for—if he hadn't pointed us to Matteo and Francesca, we might never have gotten the ring back or met the Guadagnos. But sitting there in the ristorante, all I could think was that your ring was gone, probably forever! We could have replaced it easily, but it just wouldn't have been the same."

The helpful tourist had seen the Italian children discover the ring while playing in the water and was happy to direct the Harts their way after hearing their story. In turn, the children were pleased to hand over the ring to its rightful owner, and the grateful couple treated them to ice cream as a reward. Thus had begun their long friendship with the family that owned Casa Guadagno. Yes, the incident had turned out very well for the Harts after all.

Over the next several days Jonathan and Jennifer took it easy, relaxing on the beach and walking the quaint streets of Positano, dining on hearty and delicious fare. Not for the first time, Jennifer found herself reflecting on the words of John Steinbeck, who had written about his own stay in this hillside Italian town: "Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn't quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone." These days in Positano did indeed feel like a dream for the Harts, and both knew once they were home again, it would take a while to waken fully to the real world.

*From the _Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,_ as translated by Edward FitzGerald.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow—writing this story has got me dreaming about my honeymoon! My husband may just have to take me back to Italy to get me stop talking about it. Most of the places I mention in this chapter are places we visited, though we did not make it to the Cetrella church—I've only read about that, but someday, I hope to see it. The Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote a poem about the church's Madonna—I tried to find an English translation of the poem to share, since I mention it in the story, but had no luck. If you'd like to see what the chairlift ride up Monte Solaro is like, just search "chairlift" and "Monte Solaro" on youtube and you'll find plenty of videos. While you're there, search for "Blue Grotto," too—it's an amazing sight! Anyway, just a short chapter this time. It may be a month or so before Chapter 3 goes up—I'm getting ready to travel to Ukraine in a couple of weeks and have to get my focus on that. Then again, if the muse strikes, I'm going to have lots of writing time on the flight over!**

* * *

 _July 19, 1997_

 _I try to remember what happened that last day. We had it all planned out—the morning ferry to the island of Capri, the chairlift ride over the orange groves and the terraced gardens of Anacapri and up Monte Solaro, a picnic lunch under the fragrant wisteria at the Cetrella church, a moment to admire the Madonna (during which of course you would treat me to a recitation of Rilke's poetry), then back down to sea level and a visit to the Blue Grotto before taking the ferry back to Positano. But I have no memory of doing any of this. I remember waking up early that morning and watching you sleep, completely in awe that you ever chose to love me. I remember sitting on the balcony eating our breakfast of bread and jam and fruit as we gazed out over the bay. I remember the fragrance of honeysuckle wafting up from the garden. I remember the walk from the inn to the docks, the call to board our ferry, the sense of anticipation as we joined the crowd of people filing up the gangplank, and then… nothing. Suddenly, I was waking up here in this room to the darkness and the endless headache and the terrible news that you were gone… had been gone for three long months. I think they told me what happened, but… I cannot remember. I do remember the doctor's glib words, telling me to accept my loss and move on. She does not know that the very thought of losing you has caused a vast chasm to rip its way through my heart, that without you I am lost and broken. She insists you are gone and calls my feelings otherwise nothing but "unscientific superstition." But if it were true, wouldn't I have felt it the moment I awoke? How could I continue to live without the rhythm of your heart keeping time with my own? I feel that you are alive, that you are near, but I cannot explain why. And still there come moments of doubt—why would they lie to me? If you were alive, surely you would be with me. You would never leave me alone. I am alone, so you must be gone. But you can't be. The more I try to think on it, to reason it out, the more my head aches. Giving in to the pain, I let the nurse wheel me to my bed and settle me under the blanket. Soon I feel the rush of morphine through my veins. The headache eases, the sedative works quickly, and I sink into a dream of you..._

 _Laughter and sea spray… your eyes sparkling in the sunlight… your joy at the sight of a dolphin leaping gracefully from the water… the warmth of your hand in mine… your kisses behind my ear and your whispered assurance of love… these sights and sounds and sensations fill my dreams and I feel whole again. I hear voices from outside my dreams, feel hands attempting to prod me into wakefulness, but I resist and sink deeper into the comfort of you._

* * *

July 21, 1997

Francisca Bonfiglio frowned at her patient from the doorway, wishing (not for the first time) that he was in a real hospital where he could receive the proper care. Of course, she had the necessary training and her uncle had provided the medical supplies she needed, but she was not really a doctor… not yet, at least, and probably never would be now. She sighed and shifted her attention back to the patient. She understood why he resisted awakening, because she had been there herself, grieving the loss of all that was dear to her. Sleep was easier than sorrow, and even now she welcomed the dreams that brought her family back to her in brief snatches of memory. Her fingers rubbed absently at the scars just under the cuff of her left sleeve. She remembered little of the fire that had taken everything and left only those scars in exchange. Perhaps that was why she felt such sympathy for Jonathan Hart. His body was not burned as hers had been, but he bore scars on his heart just as she did.

In defiance of her uncle's orders, Francisca moved quietly into the room to sit beside Hart's bed. Once he was out of danger, she had been instructed to stay out of his room unless he required life-saving care, but she knew that as long as she was very careful about what she told him, she could get away with showing some sympathy to a poor, grieving man. Giuseppi Galleti was cruel and corrupt, but he held a soft spot in his heart for his niece. Francisca only wished she trusted that soft spot enough to do what was right and give Jonathan Hart the help he really needed—perhaps then she could forgive herself for what she had become a part of.

Casting a quick glance toward the door to be sure no one was watching, she slipped a hand into Jonathan's and squeezed it tight. "Take heart," she whispered gently. "You have much to live for."

* * *

 _"_ _Take heart, Mr. H." A shadowy fog surrounds me, but that familiar gravelly voice sends a wave of comfort through me. For the first time since it—whatever It was that brought me to this place and time—happened, I don't feel alone. Then Max steps out of the shadows and smiles at me. He looks young and strong, like when I was a kid hawking papers on the street corner and he first stepped into my life. A cigar dangles from the fingers of one hand and what looks like a racing form from the other, and a small grey dog prances happily at his heels. Overwhelmed with longing, I reach for them, but all at once a great chasm lies between us and they are miles away. I lower my hand and raise my eyes to Max's and suddenly they are close again. "Sorry," he says, "but it ain't your time to cross, Mr. H. You got lots to live for." He takes a long draw on his cigar, then breathes it out in a puff of smoke. "Take it from me, Mrs. H ain't here. You gotta wake up and get well and then you gotta find her. Come on, Mr. H… time was when you would do whatever it took to protect her. You can't just hide here when she needs you!" I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly Max and Freeway and the fog are rushing away from me and I am left standing alone again. But his words echo in my mind. "Take it from me, Mrs. H ain't here… Mrs. H ain't here… ain't here…"_

With a shudder, Jonathan awoke. He felt warm fingers curled around his and for an instant, he thought Jennifer was with him again, but only for an instant. A woman's soft and gentle hand, yes—he could feel that—but it was not the hand of the only woman who truly mattered to him. "Who?" he asked, deliberately keeping his words to the bare minimum.

Her hand tensed briefly and he realized he had startled her. She must not have known he was awake. Then she spoke. He could not place her voice, and yet it seemed oddly familiar, and brought to his mind the image of Max from his dream, telling him to "take heart."

"I am your doctor, Francisca Bonfiglio," her voice said. She sounded neither cold nor distant. Was she the same doctor that had told him… he couldn't remember exactly when… that he needed to accept his loss so that he could heal? His mind could not reconcile the two, but he knew trying to reason it out would bring the headache raging back.

"W… where?" he asked. "And why?" And in the back of his mind, he could hear Jennifer coaching their godson on a report he was writing— _"A good journalist always remembers the five Ws and the H: Who, what, where, when, why, and how."_ The memory turned up his lips in a slight smile that faded almost as quickly as it had come.

"You were in a car accident on the Amalfi Coast Road," the voice said. "You are in the hospital with a head injury."

And in that instant, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was all a lie. As much as he loved a wild ride in a fast car, he and Jennifer had agreed years ago that they would never travel the Amalfi Coast Road again. "You… lie," he ground out between his teeth. He heard the quick intake of breath and figured he'd hit a nerve. "T… tell me… the truth."

She dropped his hand and he could hear her moving about the room. Then she lifted his hand again and he felt the rush of morphine into his veins once more. "N… no… more!" he protested, reaching with his right hand to find the IV line going into the back of his left hand. He pushed her hand away, then gave a firm yank to remove the cannula before enough of the medication could get through to knock him out. Though every muscle screamed in protest, he pulled himself into a sitting position, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed. She had backed off, and he hoped he was facing her—at the moment, the blood rushing through his ears was too loud for him to gauge her location by her breathing. "I… want… the… truth," he enunciated carefully, unwilling to allow even a hint of a stammer. "Where… is… Jennifer?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well, here you have one more chapter before I embark on my travels. The characters kept talking in my head, leaving me no choice but to write, but now I have to shift my focus to getting ready for my trip to Ukraine. I had a great time researching this chapter, but I must issue this disclaimer: While I researched the injuries I have imagined for Jonathan, I am in no way a trained medical professional; therefore, please be patient with any inaccuracies. I welcome kindly offered corrections that will help me to improve my work!**

 **Glossary: (Sicilian dialect -** English)

 **Cosa nostra –** Literally, "our thing." What we call the Sicilian Mafia, they simply call cosa nostra. According to my research, it is not capitalized like a proper name. The American counterpart is called La Cosa Nostra.

 **Ziu –** Uncle

 **La famigghia –** The family

* * *

July 21, 1997

Francisca wanted to give Mr. Hart what he asked—the truth—but she was afraid. She would not fool herself with thoughts of her uncle's professed fondness for her—he was a dangerous man and if he ever suspected her of betrayal, her life would be worth little. But then she looked at her patient's face. Even with the bandages covering his eyes, she could see his determination in the set of his jaw and the narrow line of his lips. She eyed the door warily, then looked out the window to see her uncle and her American cousin sitting under the gazebo at the far end of the garden. The bodyguards would be somewhere close to them but out of sight, her other cousins were away on a new job, and Maria was preparing the afternoon meal in the kitchen one floor down. No one was close enough to hear her. Her eyes darted to Jonathan's hand, which was bleeding where he had pulled the IV out. She grabbed some salve, a gauze bandage, and some medical tape, then took hold of his hand again. She held it firmly, and when he tried to pull it away, she reassured him.

"I am only cleaning it and then applying a bandage," she promised. "You are bleeding." She lowered her voice as she worked and kept one eye on the door the whole time. "I will tell you what I can, but you must know it puts both you and me in grave danger. As you have guessed, your wife is alive. You were taken from the ferry to Capri. You fought your captors, so I am told, and you sustained a head injury. They should have taken you to a hospital, but instead they brought you here to Sicily and my uncle ordered me home from Catania to care for you—I… I had been preparing to start my residency." Her voice cracked with regret.

* * *

 _Your wife is alive._ After those words, Jonathan heard nothing else. Until that moment, he had not realized just how tenuous his faith in Jennifer's survival had been. Relief coursed through him, accompanied by a surge of longing to hold her in his arms. "T… Take me to her," he demanded, his voice husky.

"I am sorry," his caretaker answered. "I cannot. My uncle has the only key to her room. No one else is allowed to enter unless he is present. But I have seen her—she is healthy and unharmed." She wrapped slim fingers around Jonathan's wrist. He resisted, but she kept a firm grip. "I know you have more questions, Mr. Hart, and I promise to answer them truthfully as best I can, but first you must allow me to examine you."

Jonathan assented with a slight nod. Though his whole body trembled with the urge to launch himself from the bed, burst out of the room, and search high and low for his wife, he knew he needed answers first, and he needed to regain his strength.

Francisca Bonfiglio remained silent as she checked his vital signs, but Jonathan could hear the scratching of a pen on paper and assumed she was noting what she found. After the scratching stopped, he felt her hand on his once more. "I must talk with you about your injuries," she said, "and then I will remove your bandages and we will see if there is any improvement in your vision. Do you remember what I said before?"

"We were… taken… from the ferry," Jonathan said. "I f… fought."

"Yes," she confirmed. "How much do you want to know? It will be difficult to hear."

"Tell… everything," Jonathan insisted.

Francisca sighed heavily before answering in her impeccable, slightly accented English. "I can tell you only what was told me by my cousins. They paid a child on board to lift your wallet. When you realized it was missing, you went to the security officer… but Luca was not really Security; he works for my uncle. He brought you below decks to take your report, and your wife insisted on going with you. Tinu, Paulu, and Marcu were waiting there. Apparently, you saw Tinu grab at Mrs. Hart and you fought to protect her. While Tinu and Paulu restrained your wife, Luca beat you with his truncheon until you were unconscious. Then they transferred you both into a small launch they had pulled alongside the ferry."

Jonathan heard her voice tremble as she told the story, and then she fell silent. "And then?" he asked. "I n… need to know."

"They… they wanted to be sure no witnesses could speak for you. They had set charges throughout the ferry." Though she kept her voice quiet, he could hear the fury in her tone. Her words tumbled out in a trembling, breathless heap. Thanks to his headache, he lost the thread of her speech, but managed to take in enough bits and pieces to get her meaning. "…Safe distance… detonated… no survivors…"

Those words struck him to his core and he could not listen anymore. He reached a hand up to where hers trembled by his left ear as she began to loosen the bandages. "Enough. P… please st… stop," he spat out, disgusted with himself over that blasted stammer.

"I'm sorry," she said softly as she continued unwrapping the bandages. "Now, keep your eyes closed," she instructed. Carefully, she removed the pads that covered his eyes. "All right, open them slowly and tell me what you see."

Jonathan obediently blinked his eyes open. "N… nothing," he said, after a moment of silence. His mind took him back over the years to the days of worry after he dove into a pool poisoned with chemicals that injured his eyes. For a couple of tension-filled days, he had not known if he would ever see again. Jennifer had helped him come to terms with that, with the help of his old professor Jim Blye. _And_ _she will help me with this,_ he thought, his hopes buoyed by the reassurance that Jennifer was alive. _We've always found a way through our troubles before. This time won't be any different._

He felt Francisca replacing the pads and the bandage wrap and after a moment realized she was talking again. He concentrated carefully on listening, though he came in mid-sentence. "… eyes themselves are not injured, but it is best to cover them so you do not strain to see. I believe you suffered a fracture to your skull and that your optic nerve has been compressed. Without an x-ray, though, it's difficult to say for certain. Surgery might restore your sight, but this long after the injury, well… again, it's difficult to say. The same injury could—"

Dazed and incapable of absorbing anything more, he interrupted with a tap to her hand. "T… too much," he said quietly.

She sucked in a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. "You are right, I am talking too much. My instructor would remind me that you might have difficulty processing things right now, and I should keep my explanations simple." She gave a strained laugh. "There I go again. Mr. Hart, I will try to get a message to your wife. I know she has been as anxious about you as you were about her. Rest now. I will come back when I can."

Before she could leave, he felt for her hand and grasped it. "T… tell her… I love her."

He could hear the smile in her voice as he settled back against his pillows. "Don't worry," she promised. "I will."

* * *

The summer sun beat down mercilessly, but the lush garden of the Galletti villa was a haven of comfort. Bees buzzed lazily among the jasmine and honeysuckle and white pomelia blossoms, birds chattered from the branches of orange and lemon trees, and a light mist from the fountain, along with two bottles of ice cold lemonade, cooled the two men who sat across from one another at a simple pine picnic table.

"Well, Cristòfuru," Giuvanni Galletti mused, tapping his fingertips together as he stared at his nephew over his black-rimmed Versace sunglasses. "I have done as you asked—I have brought Jonathan Hart here. The American and Italian authorities have given up the search and, given the circumstances of the disappearance, will likely declare him and his wife dead within the week. Once you have kept your promise to me, Hart will be yours to torment."

"And the woman?" Chris asked, eyeing his uncle through narrowed lids. "What will you do with her?"

Galletti shrugged, but a gleam in his cold grey eyes betrayed his fascination with the object of their discussion. "She is an amusement, nothing more," he said, keeping his voice light. His right hand rubbed at a bruise on his cheek. "A pretty trifle. Spirited, though. What is it you Americans say… a 'spitfire'? But I like a challenge. I will break that spirit and she will give herself to me willingly… then I will dispose of her."

Chris nodded. His uncle's intentions came as no surprise. Were the woman 20 years younger, he might have attempted to lay claim to her, but he knew better than to challenge the Mafia Don who had welcomed him as long lost family when his own father had thrown him out. Thanks to Hart, his father's fortune was now beyond his reach, as was his mother. The nursing home in charge of her care had a restraining order banning Teresa Denning's son from the premises entirely. He took a sip from his lemonade, relishing the hint of vanilla flavor, while at the same time craving the harder drink his uncle forbade him. Setting the bottle down on the table, he leaned forward. "What do you want me to do?"

Galletti shifted his tall, slender frame slightly in his seat. "I will tell you tomorrow what service I expect of you. But first, I must be absolutely certain." He paused and his gaze settled on Chris, scrutinizing him carefully.

Chris wasn't sure what he saw in his uncle's grey eyes—censure? Approval? Whatever it was, it made him shiver. He had often wondered at the man's ability to seem intimidating with so little meat on his bones, but now he knew. It's the eyes, he thought. It's like they look right through me and see all my secrets. He cleared his throat nervously and waited for the older man to continue.

"Are you serious about joining **cosa nostra**?" Galletti asked. "This is not a commitment you should undertake lightly."

Chris hesitated a moment, looking down as he carefully considered his answer. The Don would expect that, he thought—Galletti had told his nephew many times over the last few months that he needed to think before he spoke. But there really was nothing for him to think about. He wanted more than anything to join cosa nostra. He liked the luxurious lifestyle his uncle lived, of course, but even more, he saw cosa nostra as an opportunity to belong, to be taken into someone's inner circle and be fully accepted for once in his life. Whatever service his uncle would call on him to perform, he was prepared to agree to it. He looked up into his uncle's glittering cold eyes. "I'm dead serious, **Ziu."**

"I am glad," Galletti said. "Because if you are not serious, you could just end up dead."

Christopher squirmed under his scrutiny, but did not interrupt. "I promised when you showed up on my doorstep with your documents proving our relationship that I would tell you about your mother at the right time. Now is that time. Your mother—my half-sister—never understood our father. She was the child of his first wife, Graziella, who died giving birth to her. Papa devoted himself to her, but she betrayed **la famigghia** when she ran away the day she turned 18. She never looked back, and we were not able to find her. When you discovered your heritage and found your way to me, I decided to give you a chance because Teresa was always kind to me when we were children."

He drained the dregs of his lemonade and plunked the bottle down on the table, then ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair with a sigh. "I am not convinced you can be trusted to join cosa nostra. Yes, you are Teresa's son, and in spite of everything, I loved my sister, but I have reason to doubt whether you are ready to be a man of honor."

Chris frowned. "What do you mean? What do you know about me, Ziu?" His tone bordered on belligerent. Green eyes locked with grey in a defiant stare, then, defeated, broke contact and studied the woodgrain of the table top.

Unwilling to be hurried, Galletti slid a silver cigar case from the inside pocket of his jacket. While Chris waited for his answer, he extracted a Toscano, a pocket cigar cutter, and a box of matches. Unwrapping the Toscano, he ran it under his nose, inhaling deeply and then sighing in pleasure.

When he finally answered, he kept his voice quiet but firm, his attention on trimming the cigar's ends, then cutting it in half. "I know your father considered you a threat to your mother—my sister. I know you were suspected of embezzling $50,000 from his company and then squandering every penny within months. I know about Margaret and your daughter Eva, born a mere four months after your wedding, and I know about your second wife Georgia Lee, who died under suspicious circumstances, though the police could not prove anything." He raised an eyebrow when Chris looked up at him, eyes wide with dismay. "Yes, Cristòfuru, I have my sources, and I thoroughly research any man I intend to associate with." He offered half of the cigar to Chris, who waved it away.

"Take it," Galletti ordered, his tone brooking no disobedience. "This is a real man's cigar." He slid a wooden match from the box, struck it against the side, let the tip burn for a few seconds, and then lit the cigar, rotating it slowly between the fingers and then blowing on the embers and rotating it one more time before taking a puff. Anxious to be seen as a real man, Chris copied him exactly, hoping that his uncle would not realize this was his first time to smoke a cigar. As soon as he took his first draw on the pungent stogie, he choked and coughed. Galletti laughed, but waited for him to recover.

"Ziu…" Chris extinguished his cigar in the ash tray that sat between them on the table. "How does any of that matter? I'm… I'm not admitting I embezzled that money or killed Georgia Lee, mind you, but… you… you're Mafia… why would you care if I did steal or kill before joining?"

Galletti smiled indulgently, then spoke around his cigar. "We are not common criminals. We are men of honor, protectors of the people against government thieves and occupiers. We respect our wives and mothers and we do not steal from la famigghia. Jonathan Hart came between you and your mother, and so he must suffer the consequences, but for you to steal from your father? That is inexcusable." He tapped his cigar on the ash tray, then took another long draw. "But you were not raised in your true homeland and you clearly were not taught proper discipline," he said, as if that explained all of Chris' faults. "If you will commit yourself to cosa nostra, I am willing to train you properly, to turn you into a Sicilian man of honor. If you please me, I will make you my heir, as I have no son of my own. Until you have taken the oath to uphold our code, I can tell you nothing more… except that the penalty for betraying that oath is death. Knowing this, you must think on it carefully, Cristòfuru. You say you are serious, but are you truly prepared to take the oath? Meet me here at sunset and give me your answer."

In shock, Chris could only nod in response. He was thankful that Galletti seemed to consider this adequate for now. The older man crushed his cigar in the ashtray, pocketed his cigar case, cutter, and matches, and walked back to the old villa without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Dear readers, I apologize for the long silence! I must assure you I have not dropped off the face of the earth and I did not get lost in Ukraine. I had a wonderful couple of weeks there and then returned home to the unexpected offer of a new job teaching third and fourth grades at my church's school. My class is small but wonderful and very exhausting, so for the last several months I have been coming home from work in the afternoons intent upon writing, only to collapse in an exhausted heap in front of the television until I absolutely have to get up and feed my family and prepare for the next day. Add to that a long bout with writer's block and you will understand why I have not posted for months. But recently the characters began speaking to me again and I am no longer quite so exhausted after school, so I have finally been able to write a new chapter. My hope is that it will not be quite so long before the next one, but I really need to update my Emergency story (Stirring the Ashes of Memory) before I return to Hart to Hart. Thank you for your patience and for your kind messages over the last few months!**

 **Now to the story. You may remember from previous chapters that "cosa nostra" is the name of the organization in Sicily often referred to as the Mafia. It literally means "our thing" and is generally written without capital letters. I did a lot of research online before writing Chris' cosa nostra initiation. While I have taken some liberties to make it work with my storyline, I tried to keep it as accurate as I could. The wording is based on wording I found online for an initiation into a related crime organization based in another part of Italy. The parts with the image of the saint and cutting the finger and the flame are all actual parts of an initiation; also, the commandments that Chris vows to uphold are real. Finally, now is a good time to emphasize that not all Sicilians or all Italians are involved in organized crime! But what would a Hart visit to Italy be without a run in with the Mob?!**

 **Glossary: Sicilian/Italian - English**

 **Ziu – Uncle**

 **Lo Parrino –Sicilian name meaning "the Priest."**

 **Omertà – the Mafia code of silence**

 **Pizzo – a payment of protection money**

 **Abbentu – A siesta or afternoon rest period**

 **Ciau – The Sicilian version of Ciao, or Bye.**

 **Mia – My**

 **Ciccina – A nickname for Francisca, which is a Sicilian form of Francesca.**

 **La Dottoressa – The Doctor (female)**

* * *

Friday, July 25, 1997, 5:30 a.m.

The loud buzz of his alarm clock burst through Chris' dreams and yanked him into consciousness. He rolled over in bed with a groan and slammed his hand down on the snooze button. His uncle required that he rise at the crack of dawn and tend the horses and muck out the stalls before breakfast—a way of proving his usefulness and showing that he could accept responsibility. He would repeat the task this evening before bed. So far, life as a Mafioso was not living up to his expectations. In fact, it was everything he had longed to escape as a teen under his father's thumb, but this time, there was no escape. **Ziu's** word was law here in Jardinu, and the penalty for disobedience was far harsher than Miles Denning would ever have dished out. Chris sat up and dragged a hand through his tousled hair. Stifling a yawn, he turned off the alarm clock before it could go off again. He glanced at the bandage on his right hand and shuddered slightly at the memory of his initiation ceremony only a few nights before…

July 22

After being stripped down and checked carefully for wires, Chris had been told to don a white bathrobe. Then he was led from the villa by his cousin Luca into the midst of a small crowd of men in the garden. Torchlight flickered along the pathway and the scent of honeysuckle hung heavy in the night air. Flanked by two dark-suited men, Ziu stepped forward, cigar in hand, to welcome his American nephew. He planted a kiss on Chris' left cheek and another on his right.

"Cristófuru!" he greeted, and he clapped the youth on the back, then turned to the grey-haired gentleman in the priest's collar on his right. " **Lo Parrino** ," he said in Italian. Six months ago, Chris would have required a translator, but now he was comfortable with the language and followed easily. "I present to you my nephew Christopher Denning for initiation. He wishes to break all ties with his father's family and take on his mother's name, Galletti, and to become a man of honor."

Lo Parrino appraised Chris with a critical eye. "And what are the initiate's qualifications?" he asked. Chris bristled, but steeled himself to keep his emotions from showing on his face. He had been warned that his suitability would be questioned, but the thought of it still angered him. He was Giuseppi Galletti's nephew! Shouldn't that be enough for them? Luca's response to this question still smarted: "It won't be. And to be honest, Ziu is scraping the bottom of the barrel with you, Cousin." Now Luca stood by, smirking, as if he considered this whole proceeding a joke. _Jealous,_ Christopher thought, _because Ziu has chosen me as his heir over him and his brothers._

Ziu placed a hand on Chris' shoulder. "He is a Galletti, smart and loyal, willing to do whatever is necessary for cosa nostra. He will not fail us." Despite the man's slight frame, his voice was commanding, convincing, and the touch of his hand flooded Chris with a feeling of confidence. He would do anything to please his uncle, whom he saw as more a father than Miles Denning had ever been, at least since Grace had died of leukemia. The day Chris lost his sister was the day he lost his father as well. The memory of sweet Grace's face smiling up at him came unbidden and threatened to wreck his concentration.

Another hand on his shoulder drew Christopher back to the present. He blinked his eyes to rid himself of the unwelcome memory and glanced around. Lo Parrino held his right hand high. "My brothers," he announced, "we have gathered together this holy night, in the silence of this peaceful garden, to welcome a new member into our fold. If any here wish to object to the acceptance of Christopher Denning, now is your time to speak."

Chris shot a glance at Luca, who had moved to stand with his brothers, Tinu, Paulu, and Marcu. Luca, youngest of the four and known to be something of a hothead, took a step forward, but Tinu grabbed his arm and pulled him back, and Marcu elbowed him in the side. A wave of relief washed through Chris. If the four brothers would not speak against him, no one else would. After a moment of silence, Lo Parrino continued, beckoning Christopher to join him under the gazebo.

"Let it be known to all present that from this day forward, the initiate is no longer to be known by his father's name. He is Cristófuru Galletti, godson and heir of his uncle, Giuseppi Galletti. Cristófuru, take into your hand this image of our patron, the Blessed Virgin. Before her, you will make your vows."

The idea of the Blessed Virgin watching him made Christopher—now officially Cristófuru—squirm. He'd spent enough afternoons in Catholic school as a child with her image gazing down on him from the wall while Sister Mary Claire lectured him sternly or slapped his hand with a ruler. But he had no choice—he had found a place at last where he belonged, and he would not lose that place. At Lo Parrino's instruction, he knelt with the Virgin's image cupped in his right hand.

And so he agreed to follow the commandments of cosa nostra, impossible though some seemed for him to keep. Never in his life had he promised anything with the clear intention of carrying through, but to break this promise could very possibly mean his own death. "I will not present myself directly to another of our friends, but will only allow one who knows of my status to present me." Easy enough. "I will never look at the wives of my brothers." Harder, but he would do his best. "I will not be seen with a cop." No problems there! "I will stay away from pubs and clubs." Hopefully he would find a way around this one. "My duties to cosa nostra come before anything else. I will always be available to drop everything if I am called." He had seen how his cousins obeyed this rule without question. "I will treat elders and women at all times with respect, especially the woman I take as a wife." He remembered Margaret and Georgia Lee with a pang of regret. Leaving Margaret had been her idea, not his; and Georgia Lee's death had been an unfortunate accident—not that the police would see it that way if they ever learned the details. He promised his way through the rest of the commandments without letting himself dwell much on what he was promising. Don't steal, always speak the truth when asked (unless by a cop, of course), never break the code of **omertà,** respect appointments, be punctual, hold to moral values—well, if Ziu was willing to kidnap and kill for him, then perhaps his idea of moral values was something Chris could manage. At last, his oath was sworn. Lo Parrino brought out a knife and ordered Chris to stretch forth his hand with the image of the Blessed Virgin. A quick slice of the blade across his finger, and his blood dripped onto the Virgin's face. Finally, Lo Parrino drew out a lighter and set the image ablaze in Chris' hand. He had expected the knife, but his cousins had not warned him about the flame. Determined to get through the ceremony and earn respect, he steeled himself not to react, but simply watched the paper burn, gritting his teeth as his skin blistered. "May your flesh burn like this saint if you betray your oath," Lo Parrino intoned, and Chris echoed the sentiment.

At last the ceremony was completed, the flame quenched, and his hand wrapped in bandages, and then Chris was surrounded by his new brothers. Each kissed him on his cheeks in a gesture of welcome. Even Luca gave him a grudging clap on the back. At last he was ready for his first assignment, the one that would seal his position as a made-man. If he succeeded in that, Ziu had assured him, he would be ready for the assignment that would give him access to Jonathan Hart, and once he had Hart, he would delight in taking his revenge against the man who had taken everything from him. For now, though, Jardinu's miller had recently refused to pay the **pizzo** his late father had long ago agreed to, and he was threatening to report Galletti and his nephews to the Anti-Mafia Commission in Palermo if they did not return to him all the monies his family had paid over the years. With deep regret, Ziu had decreed that the man must be silenced, and the task had been assigned to the new Galletti heir. Today, sometime between **abbentu** and the evening milking, Cristófuru would slit Gino Farina's throat.

* * *

July 25, 11:00 a.m.

Jennifer Hart wanted to scream. She could feel it building inside her, the kind of scream that would leave a person's ears ringing for days. She would hold it in, though, let it build. Then, when that toad Galletti came to see her again, she would let him have it. A few days ago, she had thrown a china plate at him as soon as he walked through the door, before he could close and lock it. He stood there, stunned, as she darted into the hallway, but one of his thugs caught her and escorted her back into the room that served as a luxurious prison cell. Galletti just stood there, staring at her with a mixture of lust and anger and determination in his cold gray eyes as he rubbed at his bruised cheek. She couldn't help but wonder how many shades of black and blue it had turned by now. She sighed as she settled into the rocking chair by her window. If the situation were different, she might have found pleasure in the view outside and the breeze wafting in, laden with the scent of jasmine. "Oh, Jonathan," she said softly as tears began to burn in her eyes. Even though he wasn't there to listen, she spent time each day talking to her husband, imagining the touch of his hands on her hair and the mischievous glint in his eyes when he flirted with her. "You fought for me. I… I…" She swallowed hard, but the lump remained stuck in her throat. "I keep waiting for you to pop in so we can fight our way out together. That's what always happened before. But I don't think it can happen this time." Her voice trailed off into tears.

She found the steady creak of the old rocking chair strangely comforting. All other sounds faded into the distance as she rocked back and forth, back and forth. She tugged at the hateful lace collar of the black dress Galletti forced her to wear. At first she had refused it, but one day when she emerged from her bath, she found that her slacks and light sweater were gone, and she'd had no choice but to pull on the dress. Her own clothes were never returned to her, but three more identical black dresses soon joined the first in the pine wardrobe. Galletti had praised her lavishly the first time he saw her in the dress and had indulged her with gelato that afternoon. _As if I were nothing more than a child,_ she thought. Though she might have enjoyed the treat, she gained greater satisfaction from throwing it in his face.

Jennifer felt a growing sense of disgust with herself for such behavior. Always in the past, she had been a woman who knew "how to take care of herself," as Max had often said, but she hadn't the slightest idea how to get herself out of this mess, let alone help Jonathan, wherever he was. Galletti insisted he was dead, but she didn't believe that for a minute. She couldn't—she had to hang on to at least that one shred of hope if she wanted to survive. But Jonathan had been so badly hurt. Jennifer shuddered at the memory of the beating he had received, how their captors had kept kicking him even after he had fallen unconscious. She said nothing about it, though—she would not take the risk of making Galletti feel he had to prove it to her. Locked in this room day after day, with only herself and sometimes Galletti for company—and on rare occasion the lady doctor he brought to check on her—she felt like a caged tiger.

Today especially she just wanted to forget. This morning, several newspapers dated July 24 had been passed through the door with her breakfast tray: among them, the London _Gazette,_ the _Wall Street Journal,_ and the Los Angeles _Times._ Longing for news of the outside world, she had pushed aside her breakfast of bread and jam and eagerly unfolded each paper in turn. The front-page headlines jabbed like a fist to the gut. "Business Magnate Jonathan Hart and Wife Declared Dead," screamed the _Gazette._ She tossed it aside, along with the gossip rags and their ridiculous proclamations of "Scandal Rocks the Hart Empire" or "Jonathan Hart's Lovers Tell All" and unfolded the _Times_ to read on the front page _, Devastating Loss Rocks Los Angeles._ Under the headline was a photo of herself with Jonathan—she recognized it as a copy of the one that had sat on the fireplace mantel. The byline of Andrea Holmes, an old friend of the family, assured her it would be a truthful article, kind to the Hart legacy. Jennifer immersed herself in the words as if they could carry her all the way home.

 _Raised in San Francisco's Mission Street Orphanage with no knowledge of his family background, Jonathan Hart emerged from a troubled youth to make a name for himself as a Navy pilot and then as an industrialist, skillfully growing an initial investment of $1,500 into a fortune; Jennifer, nee Edwards, meanwhile, distinguished herself in university as a student of languages; after graduation, she excelled in her chosen field of journalism. Married in 1976 after a whirlwind romance in London, the pair earned a solid reputation as amateur crime fighters._

The next few paragraphs brought a faint smile to Jennifer's lips, describing some of the more interesting cases she and Jonathan had helped solve, but it was the final paragraphs that touched her most deeply.

 _The most profound impact of the Harts' deaths will not be to the worlds of industry, journalism, or even crime fighting, but to the world of philanthropy. The Harts were never known to hoard their wealth, but could always be counted on to give with no expectation of return or reward. They did not simply dole out their riches, though. Mr. Hart was a firm believer in giving a hand up along with the hand out. "I received both in my time," he once said, "and that's how I got where I am today."_

 _Hart Industries opened job training centers throughout Los Angeles, and then hired the graduates. Jeffery Corbin, one of those graduates, is a powerful example of that hand up. "Three years ago," Corbin said, "my family was living in a homeless shelter. My son was real sick and I lost my job and couldn't find another one. We couldn't pay rent and the doctor, so we lost the apartment too. Soon we couldn't afford the doctor either. We came awful close to losing Danny. One day, Mr. Hart visited the shelter and talked with me for a long time. Not long after, the shelter director gave me keys to a new apartment and told me a grant was covering room and board and a doctor would be contacting us about my boy. He said the grant would pay for job training for me and a job would be waiting when I completed the program. Not an hour after we moved in, that doctor knocked on the door, said he'd been sent to take care of Danny. A house call from a big-name specialist, if you can believe it! Even after I was working again, he wouldn't take a penny from me, said it was all covered. I didn't know till a few months ago—about the time they went missing—that it was Jonathan Hart who signed off on that grant and got us that doctor. Now Danny's doing better and I just got promoted at work. Last week we bought a house. I never could have done it without Mr. Hart."_

 _This, more than anything else, is the Hart legacy—the vast array of people who, having risen from rock bottom, say, "I never could have done it without the Harts."_

 _A memorial service will be held Saturday, July 26, at 10:00 a.m. at St. Vincent de Paul Catholic Church, 621 W. Adams Blvd., Archbishop Roger Mahoney presiding. In lieu of flowers, donations in memory of the Harts are being accepted by Hart Industry's Career Development Center and the William Holden Wildlife Foundation."_

Unable to read any further, Jennifer dropped the paper to the table as she thought about the Corbins. She'd never met them, but she certainly remembered hearing all about them. Jonathan had returned from his visit to the shelter that day, passionate about helping the young husband and father. "Jeff is a good man, Jennifer," he'd said as he wrapped his arms around her, "but everything has been going wrong for him and his family. Well, I intend to change that." He danced her around the room and then stopped and kissed her deeply, his eyes sparkling with delight. She loved that about him—the utter joy he took from helping others, from using his wealth to do good. He didn't care about recognition; he simply took pleasure in seeing other people get the same sort of chance Max had given him.

A rustling at the door interrupted her reverie. _Galletti,_ she thought, fighting back panic, and she looked around for something heavy to throw at him. A vase of flowers caught her eye and she reached toward it, but then drew her hand back. So far, he had restrained himself from hitting her, but she could see the fury in his eyes at her last outburst, and she would not risk pushing him any further. Today, he would find Jennifer Hart at her most dignified. Stubborn, of course, and unwilling to yield, but a lady nonetheless, her behavior befitting the Edwards and Hart names.

She waited, but the door never opened. Instead, a folded paper was slipped under and then light footsteps hurried away down the corridor. Jennifer darted to the door and grabbed up the paper. Unfolding it, her eyes quickly skimmed the carefully formed letters, then read them again more carefully. _Jonathan Hart lives. He sends his love. I will try to find help. Destroy note—if HE finds it, I am dead._

Her heart swelling with hope, Jennifer kissed Jonathan's name on the note and then held it close to her chest for a moment. Then she hurried into her small bathroom, where she tore the note into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet.

* * *

A thrill of pleasure at her small act of rebellion raced through Francisca after she successfully slipped the note under Mrs. Hart's door. She had made the attempt several times over the last few days, but either her uncle kept her busy, or he appeared just as she turned into the corridor leading to Mrs. Hart's room. If she was not tending Jonathan Hart, she was expected to spend time with her American cousin. She suspected that her uncle hoped to cement Chris' loyalty by arranging a marriage between them, and he would force the matter if he had to. The very idea made her shudder. Whenever she looked in Chris' eyes, she saw only emptiness there, as if he felt nothing. And of course, she knew from her other cousins that the whole scheme to destroy the Harts was for Chris. Francisca's mind was made up—she would do whatever she could to help the Harts escape, and she would ask them to take her with them. She would not remain here at the mercy of a man who would force her into marriage to a man like Chris and who glibly ordered the kidnapping and torment of the Harts and the deaths of all those people on the ferry. She had to get away.

So now she scurried down the corridor away from Mrs. Hart's room, eager to put the next phase of her plan into action. Stepping into the foyer, she found her uncle just coming in through the front door. She swallowed hard, fastening her eyes on the floor. " **Ciau** , **Ziu** ," she said softly. _He must see only the mouse he has long known,_ she reminded herself as she lowered her eyes and waited for him to speak.

He cupped her chin in his hand, tilted it upwards, and studied her carefully, his brow furrowing. "Why the guilt in your eyes, **mia** **Ciccina**?" he asked.

She tensed at his use of the nickname her father had once whispered in her ear to soothe her tears. Somehow it did not seem comforting from Giuseppi Galletti's tongue. "I don't know what you mean, Ziu," she whispered. After a deep breath, she managed to speak up. "I wish to go to Mass and Confession. You would not have me dishonor my father and my grandmother by neglecting my religious duties, would you?"

He curled his fingers around her forearm and tightened his grip. "You will not speak of the dead," he growled. This had been his rule since the day she awakened in the hospital to an unknown uncle at her bedside and the news that her family—mother, father, sister, and brother—was gone. Her back and shoulders tightened, but she resisted the urge to pull away. His eyes met hers and held them in his gaze. "You have something to confess, Francisca?" he asked. "Tell me… have you given more to your cousin than is proper before marriage?"

"Ziu!" she gasped. Her cheeks were burning. "N… no… I…"

His eyes glittered as he let go of her arm. Clearly, he would believe what he wished to believe. "Go, speak with the priest. Then return promptly. I will speak with you and Cristófuru together."

"Yes, Ziu," she agreed meekly, and she slipped past him and out the door.

* * *

July 25, 1:30 p.m.

Jonathan carefully lifted his bowl to his mouth and drained the last drop of his soup, then set it on the dinner tray and pushed it away. He leaned back against the pillows while the servant bustled around him, clearing the tray and then taking him by the arm and guiding him into a sitting position. He wondered what the woman looked like. Sturdy, he suspected, as she was strong enough to get him out of his bed and into his chair. He hated the indignity of having her help him into the bathroom and tend his needs, especially now that he was strong enough to manage on his own. He could not risk letting her know how much he had improved in the last few days, as she might report back to his captor. Ever since **La Dottoressa** had stopped his morphine a few days ago, his mind had grown clearer. Though his head still ached fiercely, the dizziness and confusion he'd experienced had receded and he could concentrate for longer periods. Sometimes he still struggled with memory, but one thing always remained with him—his Jennifer was alive and nearby. He was thankful for the added clarity, because he wanted to figure things out, to put all the pieces together and find a way out of this mess and back to his wife. He knew now that La Dottoressa had a name, even if he could not always summon it to his memory, and that she was not fully a doctor yet, but she had been overseeing his care. She was kind enough and he thought he could trust her. The women he had thought were nurses were servants in the home of his captor, whose name he had not yet learned. He thought the man had been in the room with the doctor the last couple of times she'd come. He had heard another person enter with her, and from the stale smell of cigars and the heavier footsteps, guessed it was a man. The doctor's manner had changed entirely in the presence of this person, as if he intimidated her. Instead of warm and caring, she had become once again quiet and cold. Jonathan thought he could detect the slightest waver of fear in her voice, and he did not risk asking any questions, keeping silent instead while she poked and prodded.

Whether in bed or in his chair by the window, Jonathan had begun to spend his days listening carefully to the world around him. His door was left open throughout the day, and he could hear activity in the household, drifting up from the lower floors. Three times a day he heard the hurried footsteps of a servant ascending at least two flights of stairs to bring him a tray of food. The repast was simple but delicious fare, hearty thick chicken soups and minestrones that went down easily. Whatever else might be planned for him, at least starvation was not part of it. Sometimes voices would travel up from the garden through his open window during the day, and if he concentrated he could make out bits and pieces of the Italian. Sometimes he thought he heard a familiar voice, though it seemed out of place, as if it should not be speaking Italian. That voice, he thought, held the answer to why he was here, and he wished he could remember who it belonged to. Sometimes the name was on the tip of his tongue, but always before he could grasp it, it flitted away.

Most of the day, he was left to himself, visited by the servants only at mealtimes to tend his needs and help him move between bed and chair or to the restroom. The doctor came with her silent overseer once in the morning and once in the afternoon, after abbentu. Otherwise, he was left alone. Now that he felt he had learned the rhythms of the household, he had begun to prepare for the day when he could leave this room and find Jennifer. When he was alone, he practiced standing for short periods, and then walking, sliding his feet at first, but soon lifting them and walking confidently. The lessons Jim Blye had taught him years before came back to him quickly. Using his fingers, he explored every inch of the room. It was sparsely furnished, with a single table, a couple of chairs, the bed, and a chest for bedclothes and hospital gowns. There was one window, which he avoided when he was walking. He did not want to risk anyone seeing him up and about.

For now, though, he let the servant take him into the restroom and then back to his bed. She covered him up as he sank into the pillows for an afternoon nap, already worn out from his exercise that morning. _Tonight,_ he promised himself, excitement and longing stirring within him. _Tonight I will find my way to Jennifer._


End file.
